


The Secret Court

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Thorin, Dark, Dark Thorin, Dark Thranduil, Dragon Sickness, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gangbang, Gold Sickness, Hand Jobs, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Mirkwood, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil kidnaps Thorin from the battlefield outside Erebor, bent on removing an unstable element from the political landscape. However, evil has begun to corrupt the hearts of Mirkwood's court, and whatever intentions Thranduil may have had quickly turn dark once Thorin is helpless in his possession. </p><p>In response to dwarfsmut's Thorinduil prompt for the Hobbit Reverse Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Court

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is a product of dwarfsmut's amazing art and an idea I had kicking around in my head for awhile that Thorin simply... never gets out of Mirkwood. Her prompt changed the timing around a bit, but let's just say this is a very dark exploration of the idea.
> 
> Trigger Warning __: This fic is 90% non-con with a very dark premise. Please heed all tags and warnings.  
>   
>  And of course, please enjoy.

They must have found him after the fight. He had seen his nephews pulled from the battlefield and back into Erebor, injured but still breathing. Dain had beaten him to Azog, slaying the pale orc, and Thorin’s teeth had gnashed, furious to have been robbed of his vengeance. No matter. There were other traitors on the battlefield: their erstwhile burglar, the damned wizard, the bargeman, and innumerable elves to taste his steel. Visions of gold swirled in his vision whenever he closed his eyes, the very gold those traitors had thought to steal from him with their armies and their threats. He would see them dead before the end, even if he had to track them down himself.

Rage in his heart and gold in his eyes, he had turned, not expecting the blow as it came down against the back of his head, or the flash of pale hair as the world went black.

When Thorin awoke he was bound, wrists chained to an iron link in the ground. They were in Mirkwood, in the very halls of the Elvenking, somehow. Impossible. It was a day’s hard ride from Erebor and he remembered nothing of it, with only the ache in his head to give any hint of how this had come to pass.

“He is awake. Leave us.”

Thorin’s head swam and the world was still blurry, but he heard the soft tread of what could only be elven footsteps leaving the room, and when he managed to straighten, Thranduil was there. A metal circlet rested on his silver hair and his armor glinted in the torchlight. They were alone, and Thorin was bound.

“What trouble you have caused me these past weeks, young prince,” Thranduil said. He looked down at Thorin, as if there was any other way for him to look when Thorin’s wrists were chained to the floor and he was trapped, kneeling. “Trespassing upon my lands, threatening the elves and beasts of my forest, then awakening a dragon to lay waste to our allies in Lake-town.” He began to walk in slow circles around Thorin, his movements sinuous and unearthly in their grace. His armor did not make the slightest sound as he moved and Thorin’s spine prickled in anticipation of a knife in the back. He snarled, straining for every bit of height he could manage, glaring in fury up at Thranduil as the elf came back into view. “Of course, I could not let the matter rest.”

“So you kidnapped me?” Thorin spat.

“Had I known the deaths you would cause, it would have been within my rights to kill you,” Thranduil said, arching an eyebrow.

Deaths only to traitors and cowards, Thorin thought, feeling little remorse save that he wished they’d killed Smaug in his den, and gained a bit more time for Dain’s army to arrive before the scavengers came. “And what right is that? You stole a king from within his home, do you think my kin will not arrive soon to have their vengeance?”

“No.” Thranduil’s voice was steady, and utterly final. The anger burning inside Thorin flickered, confusion joining it. “I doubt there are many who miss the king who brought them only ruin. As for your kin, they will find a body some days hence. There are so many ways to injure oneself on a battlefield, especially when one is so affected by his own greed. When last did you eat, I wonder, or were you too caught up in thoughts of gold?”

Thorin would have growled the number, for surely he had eaten what they had to keep up his strength, but he could not think of it. He did not know, and his mind turned back to Thranduil’s words as cold rushed through him. “A body? So you will kill a fellow king, and leave his corpse at their doorstep?”

“Don’t be a fool. You are my prisoner now, and not a king at all. No doubt your nephew already reigns, and your shabby kingdom is all the better for it. He will be easier to work with,” Thranduil said. He was behind Thorin now, and there was a rustle as he knelt, and spidery fingers traced the armor at Thorin’s shoulder.Thorin flinched away, and would have bitten Thranduil’s hand were it a little closer. “No, I have no intention of killing you. You are my prisoner now, but unlike you I am not so careless with my possessions.”

Thorin felt Thranduil’s breath at his ear and bared his teeth, jerking away as far as the manacles would allow as Thranduil whispered in his ear, “And prisoners do not wear armor, or crowns.”

Thorin had barely recalled that he was still wearing the Raven Crown until the weight of it was taken from his head. He gave a roar, tearing all the harder at his bonds and spitting in Thranduil’s face, but the elf easily dodged, and tossed the crown away so it clanged upon the ground, forgotten as any cheap bauble. Thorin’s eyes followed it, staring at the mark of his grandfather’s office, of his office, thrown aside with such negligence, but Thranduil was already reaching for the buckles of his shoulder pauldrons, removing the heavy weight of the gold-plated armor and tossing it aside as well, piece by piece.

“What are you doing?” Thorin said. He bruised his wrist with the effort to get free, but the metal did not budge and Thranduil continued removing his armor, un-cinching the buckles and pulling away the heavy plates, unperturbed by the dwarfs struggles.

“Whatever I wish,” The Elvenking responded. The breastplate came away next, so that Thorin was shivering in the shirt he wore beneath, as much with anger as with fear that was squirming into his belly, banishing the rage and pride that burned in his blood. How dare Thranduil? How dare he lay hands on the King of Erebor? But no matter how much Thorin struggled and spat like an enraged cat, Thranduil did not pause in undressing him.

And that’s what it was, undressing. Thranduil was not just removing his armor, he was stripping Thorin bare. Those long white fingers trailed along Thorin’s skin where they found it, raising goose bumps wherever they passed.

By now he was stripped to the waist, and Thranduil was paying special attention to the codpiece as he stripped the rest of Thorin’s armor. Thorin did what he could to make the task difficult, struggling and twisting beneath Thranduil’s grasp, but at this he froze. His heart hammered in his chest and a flush rose to his cheeks and a strangled groan was wrenched from his lips as Thranduil ducked his hand inside Thorin’s trousers.

The Elvenking crouched behind him, his body pressed against Thorin’s but the dwarf felt more as if he were caged by it, and frozen by the fingers wrapped around his cock. His breath shivered on his lips and Thranduil pressed in closer, placing his lips to the shell of Thorin’s ear, his chin on his shoulder.

“What are you now, son of Thrain? Not a king, not a legend. You have lost your honor, and your crown lies upon the floor like so much dross. You do not even have possession of your own body.” Thranduil wrapped his fingers around Thorin’s flaccid cock and gave a teasing tug. Thorin gasped, his hips jerking against his will, and no matter his rage and fear he felt himself stirring at the touch. “That is mine now. Even as the roughest diamond when torn from the earth can be brought to light by craft and carving, I have a long road before me to perfect you. You have been broken and roughened by the years of your exile. It is time you were put to a better purpose.”

Thorin made to retort, but another stroke wrenched a strangled gasp from his lips. His blood ran hot and he could feel the flush rising up his throat, his head tilting back and his hair spilling free down his back, now free of its crown.

“Devil,” he panted, and made an abortive effort to shake off Thranduil’s grasp, but it only caused him to rub harder his cock and he disguised his whimper as a grunt. Silver hair fluttered in the corner of his vision, mingling with his own black, and something was odd about it. Wrong. He could not focus, the friction was unbearable. “My kin will not allow their king to be prisoner for long.”

“Your kin think you are dead, and good riddance,” Thranduil purred in his ear. “Perhaps you should be thinking less of how you will be rescued, and more on how to make your new life as painless as possible. You have many centuries before you, son of Thrain, and there are worse fates than being the possession of a king.”

“I am no one’s possession,” Thorin snarled. The hand was moving faster now and Thorin’s vision was blurring, his mouth slackening as pleasure washed through him. Rage was not enough to dispel it; for it seemed to only make the lust burn all the hotter. Loathing. He reminded himself of how he loathed Thranduil, but to be truly outraged now was to acknowledge the helplessness of his position. The others would come for him, they must. He could not accept the fate Thranduil outlined as true, losing his crown so soon after regaining it, to this Elven whore no less. To be made a plaything of his most hated enemy, the slave of the one who had betrayed him.

Yet now it was his own body that betrayed him, leaning in to Thranduil’s touch. The golden armor sat in piles around him, tossed carelessly aside as Thranduil removed it, and the gold bewildered Thorin’s gaze, the sight of it hardening his cock all the more. Such beautiful metal, the finest of armor crafted for a king. The touch of it on his skin was like silk, its glimmer a delight that made his own breath a pant in his ears, and the long and sure fingers on his member mixed with their dazzling sight was making it hard to think.

“That will change, my dear pet,” Thranduil said, and with that all thought left Thorin as the friction on his cock changed. Thranduil’s other hand joined the first, stroking the inside of his thigh with the left as the right brought that unbearable friction in his cock to dizzying heights of pleasure. Thranduil stroked his balls, tracing and tugging, playing with Thorin until his thoughts whitened and he was jerking and spasming beneath Thranduil’s hands.

Thorin did not roar as he came. He whimpered, his body giving in, his mouth opening and his eyes fluttering shut as he came hard. It washed through him, melting his bones, his mind, dulling his senses.

When the haze left him he was alone, the last of the armor carted away. His shirt was cut away and only his soiled trousers remained, his seed drying on his skin. Thorin looked about, dazed at his surroundings.

He was still bound, but sleep was more powerful than discomfort, and as he drifted he remembered what had been so odd about Thranduil’s hair. The silver was paler than it had once been, overlaid by gossamer strands of spider silk, and those once blue eyes were pale to match.

* * *

They called it the secret court, a collection of those elves who Thranduil allowed to use Thorin's body as he did. It could only have been a fraction of Thranduil’s court, dark haired Moriquendi mixed with the light silver hair of Thranduil’s own people. Thranduil’s son was nowhere to be seen, and likely did not know of the dwarven prisoner kept in the hidden rooms of Mirkwood, where sleepless elven courtiers retired to take their pleasure of a dwarven king taken far from his home. In another room, negotiations with Erebor continued and Mirkwood supported the kingdom’s reconstruction, unknowing that their former king lay rooms away, on his knees and crying out like a wanton as he was used for the pleasure of his captors.

But he was a dwarf, and not one to give in without a fight. The first time they tried to force him to pleasure one of their numbers with his mouth, Thorin feigned meekness. At least, until the elf was well on the way to his pleasure, fucking Thorin’s mouth until suddenly Thorin struck, biting down hard enough to make the elf shriek. The pleasure of that vengeance did not last long, though. Once they dragged him off the hapless courtier, Thorin was thrown back into his cell, with promises of vengeance from Thranduil himself.

“You would do well not to harm any of my folk in their enjoyment,” Thranduil said. “All of this will grow easier, indeed even enjoyable, should you cooperate.”

They had bound Thorin to a metal frame overlooking the banquet hall, and he did not need to damage his wrists to know that it was good steel that trapped him. Still he bared his teeth in defiance, giving a savage grin. “Your man will recover, more’s the pity.”

Thranduil regarded him a long, silent moment. There was the barest suggestion of a frown before he said, “Apologize for his ill treatment, give me your oath that from this hour henceforth you will be obedient, and this evening’s feast will go better for you.”

“I have no fear of your torments, traitor. Not when you lack the stomach to make good on any of your threats,” Thorin snarled.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “Very well. Know this punishment will wait for you every time you disobey, until you learn better.” He stepped in closer to Thorin, and Thorin glared back, daring Thranduil to whatever tortures he had planned.

He did not expect long, cool fingers wrapping around his shaft and Thorin bit back a curse, whipping his head to the side and away from where Thranduil loomed above him, but held in place against the wall, unable to retreat further. Thranduil’s finger stroked him in swift, business-like strokes that were almost dispassionate. He was looking down at Thorin, his face carefully blank but considering. Thorin cursed again under his breath as his body began to respond whatever his mind may think. Trying to banish the arousal with other thoughts, with anger or craft or whatever distasteful orc faces he could consider to cool his blood, were futile against the unrelenting strokes.

He felt the first snap of heat in his loins, spreading outward, and hissed to distract himself from the heat, “Is this the only punishment you can devise? I should remember to maim your servants more often. It will be a pleasure of its own.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil said. “How impatient you brief mortals are. Can you not see, Thorin Oakenshield, that the feast has only just begun? The wine is not yet poured, the food is still baking, and the guests are only just arrived. You have a long night ahead of you." Thorin still as with one hand Thranduil slid his hand down Thorin’s length. His eyes snapped wide, but Thranduil was already retreating, as unruffled and unstained as ever, as if he had not just been using those long elven fingers on Thorin’s body.

“What are you planning?” Thorin said.

“Many of my people expressed curiosity about the dwarves. Most do not have a form so fair as yours, truly unique for your kind save perhaps the nephew that turned the head of my former captain,” Thranduil said idly. “I have decided to indulge their curiosity. For tonight’s feast they may study one to their heart’s content.”

A chill swept Thorin. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“As I said,  had you but apologized this night might have been far more enjoyable for you.”

He swept away before Thorin could muster the words to protest, too shocked to have any come readily to mind. Blue eyes widened, taking in as if for the first time the steady stream of elves as they entered the feasting room. A table had been laid out with food and jugs of wine, fish and fowl, twisting bread and plates of the greens the elves so favored, but notable all in that they were small portions suitable to be eaten in a single bite.

Or fed to another, for there were lounging couches lining the walls and all seats seemed subtly positioned to face where Thorin stood bound against the wall. So, he was to be on display, but now he knew it was not only to be seen but to be touched. He would not admit to fear, but the muscles of Thorin’s abdomen clenched as he took it all in, and for the first time since he was captured the tension in his jaw, vestiges of anger at his betrayal, indignation at the kidnapping and ill use to which he’d been subjected, eased and he realized just how truly alone he was.

The elves wore masks. Had he cared to study them he might have determined their identity beneath, but all elves looked the same to him. There were about twenty in total, including Thranduil, an even mix of men and women from what he could tell. The masks did little to hide their features, and the diaphanous silk robe they wore hid even less. Only Thranduil’s body was completely hidden from view by his robes.

The feast began, and the trepidation twisting in Thorin’s belly was threatening to become outright fear. Nothing was happening, if not for his presence, naked and bound on the dais at the front of the room, it might have been a party like any other. The elves laughed and chattered in their high, fluting voices, taking their seats, gesturing to friends and pouring drinks for one another. At times one would spare him a glance, eyes drifting over Thorin’s naked form with obvious interest, before the masked elf would turn back to his or her companion. It was as if he were nothing more than a decoration, or some bit of entertainment that was anticipated but not nearly so much that it distracted from the merriment. It might have been humiliating, were he not relieved for the stay of execution. No doubt it was only temporary.

Sure enough, as the first hour past and Thorin began to feel the beginning of tingling of discomfort in his wrists and feet, the first elf stood, swaying on his feet as he approached. The wine flowed at the table, Thorin had already seen more than one bottle go away empty, but this fellow looked as if he had consumed the entirety of one himself. Even beneath his mask it was obvious he was flushed. He cast one glance over his shoulder at where Thranduil presided over the table. Thorin held his breath, certain the courtier would be chastised, sent with his tail between his legs back to the feasting table until Thranduil gave his permission for the group to descend on Thorin.

Instead, Thranduil nodded, gesturing with one hand for the courtier to continue. Thorin’s breath froze in his throat. Until now, the torments had been largely private, only Thranduil and other elves Thorin assumed were close confidantes. The rooms were small, and there was usually a bed with silken sheets that could at least somewhat hide his nakedness. He was exposed here, his very skin a raw nerve, and he started at the first touch as the elf’s hand ran flat over the plains of his shoulder, stroking down in a lingering touch that would have been pleasant if not for the source.

“Hard as stone, just as they said,” the elf murmured to himself, stroking down along Thorin’s chest, stopping to trap one of the nipples and twist. Thorin bit his lip, his body prickling with anticipation and the sensation zinging through him. His cock stirred, already so accustomed to frequent use it did not take long, but he willed it down. Not difficult when his distaste for this elf and the smell of wine on him curdled his stomach.

The elf seemed to catch Thorin’s expression and cocked his head to the side. His hair was dark brown, and spilled in a straight sheet down his back and over the thin silk robe he wore, green and patterned with leaves. His skin was fair beneath it, the nipples pink on a lean and hairless chest, and his desire was evident, even as the robe slipped around his form.  As Thorin looked closer though, he saw the paleness of those eyes, the strands of silver spider silk that were all but invisible amongst the elf’s tresses.

“A stubborn race indeed,” the elf said. “Why do you fear when you know we will not hurt you?”

“Your very touch offends me,” Thorin growled. “And I have no guarantee that your tastes will not change.”

Those bow-shaped lips curved into a smile, and Thorin bristled as the elf spoke. “The King was right, then, you think the worst of us, ever suspicious despite all evidence. Yet I find you beautiful, in a strange way.” The elf pressed a kiss to Thorin’s collarbone. It did not feel loving, only possessive, the step that led to the next thing as he kissed and licked a trail down Thorin’s furred chest until he was crouched on his knees.

Thorin spasmed, shuddering back from the warm heat that engulfed him, his head falling back to hit the stone behind him. It was jarring, solid, comforting, it pulled him free enough to remind his traitorous body that this was not meant for his pleasure, but for the elves.

The  courtier was gentle, teasing. He used his hands as much as his mouth, stroking Thorin’s inner thigh, fondling his balls even as he tongued and sucked at the head of his cock. Thorin closed his eyes, taking his mind elsewhere. To be anywhere else than trussed up like a prize in front of Thranduil’s favorites, in this hidden room unknown even to the wider court of Mirkwood. Thorin shifted, unable to pull free but thinking at least to make it difficult, but the elf followed him effortlessly. Long fingers were wrapped around the base of his cock, holding him in place while they elf teased and the first sparks ignited in Thorin’s blood.

The gold of Erebor glinted behind his eyes. Rooms and rooms of great works, coins without number, gems like motes of fire. Spilling from his hand, covering his body, his to touch and hold, dripping across his skin—

The elf made a pleased sound and a shock rippled through Thorin. He opened his eyes, looking down to see the reason for the elf’s exclamation. He was half-hard, when a moment before he’d barely twitched.

Thorin made a frustrated noise that sound suspiciously like a groan, and encouraged, the elf redoubled his enthusiasm. He swallowed Thorin deep, nearly to the base, saliva slicking over the pumping fingers and Thorin’s groan turned to a hiss. Heat was gathering in his groin, the muscles of his abdomen tightening against the seduction of clever fingers and an expert mouth. The elf made soft, hungry noises against his cock, his eyes closed behind his mask, his lips stretched wet and obscene around Thorin.

With a shudder, Thorin tilted his head back, pleasure crawling through his veins and up his spine. It was barely more than a tease at this point, he could last many hours of such torment and not give in, had already done so, but it did not make the betrayal of his body’s response any less humiliating. To give in to this elf’s amusement, even if it meant his own pleasure was enough to add a spark of fury to the fire building within, and just for good measure he thrust forward as much as the bindings would allow, driving deep down the elf’s throat.

The elf made a startled sound, then pulled free, looking up at Thorin with spit and precum on his lips. Then his expression crinkled in a teasing grin. “Do that again,” he purred, and went back to his work with new enthusiasm.

Thorin went still in surprise, but not for long. He could disobey the elf out of sheer spite, or he could show the impertinent creature that he’d taken on more than he could handle. Thorin thrust again, lazily, enough to lure the elf into a false sense of security and the elf made another pleased sound, matching Thorin’s movements.

Thorin growled, driving harder, then harder again, until with a grunt he was fucking the elf’s mouth as much as the chains would allow. Short snaps of his hips drove his cock into the elf’s mouth, harder and faster. He was rigid now, hate and need for some form of revenge building in him like a drug, heady and erotic as any pleasure. He wanted to grab the elf by the hair, drag him harder and down, show him what it was to tease a dwarf, even one they thought to have in their power. He did not know how much time had passed, minutes that felt like hours, he was lost to the drive up it, the elf’s inexhaustible mouth. The sparks in his blood had turned to molten fire and his teeth clenched in effort loosened as his mouth dropped open. Let him take it, let him see what he had tangled with. Thorin was so close—

“Andir, enough,” came a deep voice from the far end of the room. The friction stopped, the hot mouth withdrew, and Thorin blinked, his vision and mind hazy from the approach of orgasm, his body tilted forward, seeking more.

Thranduil stood at the far end of the banquet table, and made an imperious gesture towards the elf, Andir. The elf rose to his feet in one smooth motion, without a word of protest, nodding to his king. Then he turned back to Thorin, and a faint whimper escaped the dwarf’s lips as those hands returned to his cock, encircling it. So close, though interrupted by Thranduil, a little friction and he could have the relief that his body cried for despite any thoughts of pride from his brain.

He glanced over his handiwork, a cocky grin teasing at his lips, and with that he simply… left. Returning to the table from whence he had came and back to a conversation with a blonde female elf beside him as if nothing had happened.

Thorin stared, mouth open, then looked down at his erection. It was red, leaking, and unbearably hard. He was teetering on the edge. Just a little friction, the slightest touch and he would come and the whirled inside him, building in his groin, his toes curling with need and his skin on fire. Just a little more.

“The next course will arrive soon,” Thranduil said conversationally to his guests. “Leave him until he has mastered himself.”

Thorin gave a snarl that was more of a whimper, but the elves were paying him no mind, returning to their feast as if nothing had happened and he were not standing there with an aching erection for all to see. Thorin glared at Thranduil, but the Elvenking gave no reaction whatsoever, until some a half hour later, just as Thorin was beginning to cool and the worst of the ache subsided. He was not yet soft, but his thoughts at least had cleared and the heat in his blood was no longer clouding his thoughts.

“Another of you may go,” Thranduil said, and with that the blonde elven woman besides Andir stood, still laughing at something the brunet elf had said, and approached.

“Andir is overly eager,” she said, her voice teasing and light. She did not go to stand before Thorin, but went behind the frame that held him, tracing her fingers along his back. “He had heard of your people’s stamina, but did not believe it. I am not in so much of a hurry.”

Thorin’s spine arched as he heard something pop behind him, and quickly recognized it as a vial of oil as a smooth hand marked only by a bowman’s calluses swept down his back, streaking oil with it. She made no movement towards his erection, but the touch sent sensation sparking across Thorin’s skin. The muscles of his abdomen rippled as he took a shuddering breath, willing himself to stillness and his cock to subside in its eagerness. There was nothing overtly sexual about her touch, instead the woman seemed bent on relaxing him. She worked her fingers into the muscles of his shoulder, knotted from holding himself stiff under elven gazes. She massaged the feeling back into his arms, which were beginning to numb from behind bound to either side of him, and even stooped to dig strong fingers into his calves and thighs. All the while she said nothing, fixed upon her work, until Thorin was boneless, his cock finally beginning to droop from relaxation, and the sort of calming pleasure that he could not even raise his ire against.

“There,” she whispered in his ear. “Now you are a bit more ready.” Then her hand traced downward, the fingers slick with oil, and she grasped at the hard muscles of his arse, kneeding them, lightly scraping her nails against them so that Thorin sucked in a breath, his drooping eyelids flying open as the tingle of need renewed.

She was as unwavering in this as she had been in the massage. Her fingers worked him, teasing and pressing by turns until the sensation radiated out to his pelvis and groin, just at the edge of desire but building with every stroke. Thorin swallowed back his gasps, forced his breathing steady, until strong but delicate finger traced his entrance and he started, pulling away.

“Ssshhh,” the elven woman said, and pushed a single finger inside him. His body relaxed as it was from the massage made little resistance, and she was slow in her ministrations. There was nothing more for a long while, and with her other hand she continued to stroke his back and arse, until some minutes later she tried for the second. The gentleness was disarming, so unlike the needy thrusts of the elven men who had taken him, and Thorin’s anger was crumbling, the watching elves fading from his awareness. With no escape, might he at least have this? No harm at least for now, from this one, and if they meant to use him later then this would only help.

The second finger, and much later the third were painless, and strong fingers accustomed to a bow were working inside him now, finding the center of his pleasure and pressing at it, teasing and moving inside him so that he did not moan or cry out but only gave shallow gasps that were no louder than a breath. Sweat prickled at Thorin’s brow, and his knees trembled from staying upright even as his muscles melted. The elven woman wrapped an arm around him, holding him up even as she continued, crooning some elvish nonsense in his ear until he was trembling against her, eyes shut and body burning like a candle.

It was somehow worse when she was called away, and like Andir, Cúneth as she was called by Thranduil, made no protest as she separated from him. Unlike Andir, the looks she stole back at Thorin were curious, and try as he might he found no trace of mockery in them.

The evening continued on in that manner. Servants would deliver a new course or serving of wine to the table, and when it was complete a new elf would come to Thorin, devising another tease or torture. Tasting, touching, licking at his pebbled nipples, at his cock, pressing into him with toys but always withdrawing just when he could take no more. By the end, Thorin was hanging from his bindings, aflame from need, delirious with it.

Footsteps approached, and Thorin looked up from where he hung, his hair falling about his face, his skin slick with sweat and oil, tingling with need that would not be satisfied. He looked up, and saw Thranduil looming above him, robes silver as a spider’s web.

“Do you remember how this began, son of Thrain?” Thranduil said, leaning down towards Thorin.

Thorin’s breath was loud in his ears, his cock pulsing with need for the slightest touch, any friction at all instead of this damnable teasing and withdrawing. It had been hours and he could hardly think beyond a single desire: to come. Whatever his brain may desire, his body had long overruled it, shrugging off the many curious gazes of the elves that tormented him, caring nothing for dignity. Thorin whined in answer to Thranduil’s question, an incoherent plea that might have even been Khuzdûl, he was too far gone to tell.

“I warned you to accept this fate, and you ignored that warning. By injuring one of my companions, you threw it in my face. Had you obeyed and done as you were bidden, you might have spent these many hours in pleasure rather than teetering at the edge of it. Tell me, what would you do to be allowed to come?”

“I—please,” Thorin groaned. “Anything. Please.”

“Would you make up for your error?”

Thorin nodded, barely hearing what Thranduil said in his delirium, but he would, anything to stop this pounding need, anything to free himself of it and return to the cooler shores of sanity. What mattered pride or hatred? His body would burn all that he was to the ground if he did not satisfy it.

“Unbind him.”

The chains at his wrists and ankles loosed, and Thorin dropped to the ground, kneeling with his hair veiling his face. His hands crept to his swollen member. Just the slightest touch, one stroke and he would be free of this torment. A hand smacked it away.

“You are not to touch yourself, or you will be bound again. Have patience, son of Thrain, you are nearly done.” Thorin let out a sob, but obeyed, fingers digging into the flesh of his hip to stay his hands. His teeth dug into his lip, and he closed his eyes against what was to come. In the red-tinged darkness it was almost possible for the world to fall away, to think only of his imminent release.

“You may come when the king comes.” There was a mutter from amongst the gathered elves, Andir amongst them saying, “Sire, is that wise?” And then silence as their protests were waved away. “Use your mouth. The better your work, the sooner you may have your own release.”

Thorin’s breath caught, and he looked up. He was on his knees before Thranduil, and once his blood would have boiled at the faint smirk Thranduil gave him, looking down his nose at the dwarf crouched and needy at his feet. Thorin swallowed, and nodded, to give it voice was to make it real. Self-loathing roiled in his belly but it would be over soon, he promised himself. Think of gold, think of revenge, think of anything else.

Thranduil’s robes parted down the middle, framing him, and Thorin leaned in. Thranduil showed no interested in him, yet those cold eyes took Thorin in, and without warning those pale fingers dug into Thorin’s dark hair. Pinning him, controlling him, with only the faintest edge of pain. Thorin moaned around the cock between his lips and began to suck, his own pulsing with sympathy and need for the ministrations. Thranduil did not make it easy for him, it was a long while before there was even the faintest stirring, only once Thorin added greedy noises, breath huffing through his nose as he added his hand, working hard and imagining his own release. Would that his actions were mirrored on his own body, he could all but feel it and applied himself with a greater will, licking and sucking the crown and the underside of Thranduil’s cock, taking it in as deeply as he could manage without gagging.

Finally, finally, Thranduil was hard between his lips and Thorin could have sobbed with relief. He could feel the pulse through the largest vein, the rush of desire, and the faintest tremor through Thranduil’s knees that was accompanied by a slightly louder huff of breath. Thorin worked harder, until his jaw ached, urged on by the pulse of his own need.

There was barely any warning, only the swaying of Thranduil’s hips, a hitch in his breath, and the rush on Thorin’s lips. He was caught by surprise, choking on the cum until Thranduil whispered, “Swallow it, princeling. Know your place.”

The semen was harsh and salty on his tongue, but Thorin closed his eyes and did as he was bidden. The ache in his groin was crippling, and he sucked down what he was given, quickly as he could and desperately. When the last pulse stilled he fell back on his knees, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, at the dampness in his beard.

Thranduil stepped away, with only the faintest flush of pink at his cheeks to betray any weakness. He nodded to Andir and Cúneth, and others that Thorin had been too far gone to know by name. He was incoherent now, tasting salt, his hands digging into his knees to stay still. Anything to escape from being bound again, being tormented any longer. Thorin whimpered and could not stop himself as Cúneth took her place behind him, holding Thorin against her and standing while Andir took his place before him again. Her hands were on Thorin, everywhere warm and soothing, as the heat of Andir’s mouth closed around him again, working him with the same enthusiasm he had ministered to Thranduil, as if mimicking him down to the smallest movement.

Thorin groaned, a creaking, helpless sound as the edge rushed towards him. He almost did not dare hope, for it could well be another trick, but his muscles bunched and loosened  at once as his pleasure zinged through him, burning away whatever strands of identity he clung to.

He was only a creature of need now, crying and moaning for release as Cúneth’s fingers worked inside him and Andir’s tongue lashed at his member. His knees gave out and she held him upright without any effort, hands steady as she found his prostate and drilled it mercilessly, until tears gathered in Thorin’s eyes at the force of it.

Coming was destruction, it was release, it was the end of all he was. His balls tightened and his entire body contracted, shivering and pulsing as Thorin gasped, helpless to hold any shred of himself in check. Moans broke free from his lips in a desperate torrent, and he shivered and writhed in Cúneth’s grip, cracking his eyelids only enough to see Thranduil watching him with interest as he found his peak. Thorin sobbed, shivering as the last of the aftershocks wracked him, as Andir pulled away and Cúneth lowered him once more to his knees.

Thorin knelt, boneless, his chin drifting to his chest as his breath labored in his ears. Exhaustion was sweeping close behind, and he offered no resistance as fingers threaded through his hair, tilting his head back to face Thranduil.

“Resist again, and we will hold you here for days,” Thranduil said, and released Thorin. On the other side of the room, the servants began to enter to clear the feast away, the elves that surrounded Thorin dispersed, going back to their own companions. Thorin swayed, lost in a haze, in the aftershocks of it all as elves carried on, paying him little mind now that their entertainment was over.

He did not see that one elf only still watched him, her red hair braided back and away from the mask she wore, nor did he see the look of anguish that contorted her features.

* * *

Giving in was like falling asleep, slow and difficult at first, and then capturing him all at once. Loathing still pulsed within him, but Thorin hid it well. When they came to collect him for new and inventive torments, or when they took him individually within his lavish cell with its wide bed, he made no show of resistance. His snarls he hid amongst groans of pleasure, his rage in the twisting of his brow as he came.

They tormented him for weeks, and as they did they became more creative than simply plundering him in the privacy of his cell or before a room. This time they wrapped Thorin in thick silken cloth, which alone he might have shred with only the strength of his arm, but they pinned the length to his sides in wide swaths and his arms and legs were bound against his body. Last they bound it over his eyes, so like a victim of the spiders he was wrapped. He could feel by the traces of air against his body that’s some patches of skin were uncovered. His hipbones were bare and his cock hung free, as well as his arse and he was bent in his bindings, his arms trussed behind him and over each other.

His chest was exposed too before the sheets of silk wrapped around his shoulders. His mouth and nose were also exposed for breathing. Helpless.

Thorin tried twisting against the bonds, forcing his eyes open, writhing against them but there was no give whatsoever. He felt more naked than he’d been even when exposed before the secret court. At least there he could defend himself, or fool himself that he might were he ever threatened with more than the usual torments. Now they might torment him, even kill him, and he could not twitch so much as a finger to prevent it.

Then a hot mouth, lips dry and silken, closed around his cock and all thoughts of defending himself fled. Thorin’s back arched as he groaned, thrusting into that welcome heat. The silk running along the rest of his body was an eroticism of its own, teasing and reminding him of all the places he was not yet being touched. The touches was slow at first, lips closing deep around him, a tongue writhing against the underside of his cock, the slit, his whole length being worked with an ever-increasing rhythm that once would have had him biting down on his knuckles to suppress the sound. But that had been trained out of him since, louder cries dragged from him when he refused to give them up with a redoubling of effort, with open gags and many soft and clever hands over his body until he knew to give the cries up freely as they rose within him.

He moaned now, the muscles of his bound abdomen twitching as hands now joined the mouth on his cock. Well-oiled fingers probed his entrance, but whosever they were they knew him well by now. The same could be said for many elves of the secret court, so there was no knowing which of them knew just the depth and angle to press against to have Thorin’s hips jerking forward with a shout.

He was painfully hard, cock rigid and straining. Pleasure pooled in his loins, crawling up his spine, racing through his veins. The press of fingers inside him grew more insistent, better targeted, and it seemed clear that they meant to take him like this. Bound and helpless before an audience he could not see, but could sense that there were more than a few.

Thorin would have flushed with rage and shame were his blood not on fire already. Anger was there, but then it was always there when it wasn’t burned away entirely by a firestorm of lust. It was those moments he lived for now, when the pleasure peaked so high, became so unbearable that just for an instant he could let go and allow himself to give in to what no mortal could endure. The haze that followed was always brief, too brief, before reality came rushing back to him. The memory that he was their toy, that none knew he was here, that he could well spend the next century here being teased and fucked by Thranduil and his minions and there would be none who knew him any the wiser. His kingdom and throne were beyond stone doors that he could not find let alone pass, and there was no burglar to sneak in invisible and free him.

He thought he had the measure of them, that they would have him spill once before subjecting him to some other humiliation. Straightforward, turning his mouth to their pleasure as so often happened, when he felt the press of cold metal against his nipples and froze. The fire of lust damped in him instantly as alarm startled through him. Then he felt the press of metal clamps around his nipples, the releasing of long elven fingers, and the sudden weight pinching and pulling at him. Thorin let out a great gust of breath and felt the cool metal rise and fall against his chest. Pendants of some sort, pinching and dragging at him and a shiver of pleasure raced along his skin that was as much unexpected as it was a relief. So they did not mean to injure him while he was helpless, but this new sensation of the clamps on his nipples was new, and there was something about it that made him grind into the mouth around his cock, striving for greater friction, to make the tingle within him catch alight.

“They are gold,” the voice of Thranduil, low and smooth, whispered in Thorin’s ear. “I wondered if dwarves are so attuned to the metal that they may sense it even blind?”

Thorin ground his teeth together, but all defenses of anger he’d once built up against Thranduil’s voice had been torn down. Even as his memories made it a source of rage, his body now remembered that voice as a source of pleasure and lust. His chest pressed forward and he tried to disguise the motion as a deep intake of breath, and not the wanton craving for more touch, a harder pinch against his exposed and aching parts that it was.  He was a dwarf, and so nowhere near close to his completion, which meant Thranduil may still have another hour’s entertainment.

Cool fingers brushed the top of Thorin’s nipples, above the clamp and a shudder ran through his entire body. Again his mind whispered and he would have kept the words from his lips but the moan that broke free was almost as articulate. For the first time he was glad of the blindfold so he need not see Thranduil’s smirk. All the while the mouth worked up and down Thorin’s cock, raising the heat of his blood  and causing his hips to do what tiny, involuntary motions they could, begging for more, deeper, faster, even as the silk caressed him and held him trapped. Those fingers too worked within him, only two now. They probably could have taken him all at once, so often was he used now, but the elves seemed to have little interest in damaging him.

Perhaps there lay the incomprehensible line they would not cross, that which kept them from being no better than orcs. They may kidnap Thorin, use him for their pleasure, break and mock him in every way an imagination could conceive, particularly one that has lived for thousands of years. But they would not hurt him, or allow any pain to come to him that was not tinged by pleasure, and so the only pain he felt was self-inflicted as he bit into his own lip to stop his wanton moans, or his own fingernails into his palms to draw his own pleasure short when they first coaxed orgasms from him in those early days.

He quickly learned they were not against binding him, or gagging him, to protect him from himself. He had changed, allowing it, as weeks turned into months without end. It was easier to simply give in when no profit could be gained in resisting.

“Like the very drake that stole your home,” Thranduil murmured in Thorin’s ear, “Your kind are almost kin to them, sensing these base metals around you, glorying in them.” A finger traced Thorin’s chest, too light to bring any pleasure. It would not have mattered. He snarled, baring his teeth at the comparison but opening his mouth only brought with it a soft gasp as his cock was swallowed to the hilt and the sucking became ferocious, clouding all thoughts in his mind. “I wonder how else it may excite you?”

Without warning, the fingers vanished to be replaced by a slick, cold length. It teased him at first, and he could feel by the sparks in his blood that which could not be seen. They planned to fuck him with a golden cock. Thorin’s head fell forward, his hair falling around his face as he gave a moan that was torn as if from his chest. His cock must have been dripping pre-cum, and he snapped his hips forward with what motion he could despite the bonds. It rubbed the golden cock inside him even harder until his whole body was alight, craving and craning for more. More of the clever tongue on his cock and the golden cock stretching him.

“So predictable,” Thranduil said. “You would be well at home in your own treasury. Adorned with gold, crying out for it… who knew the flaw of your people could provide such entertainment?”

Then the cock was fucking Thorin in earnest and he cried out again, a high pitched whine that he could not even register as the latest humiliation. He was on fire, thrusting his hips back and forth with need. He did not even care that he must appear a fool, bound head to toe in silk, golden clamps dangling from his nipples while an elf crouched before him and another, perhaps Thranduil, held a golden cock inside him. He was in ecstasy, reaching in a matter of minutes that point which had once taken hours.

But that was what he was now: a vessel of pleasure. Slowly, Thranduil had turned Thorin into a creature crafted for it, who took and gave pleasure with equal ferocity, knowing nothing better and no other life. He could feel his body morphing to it, becoming soft and pliant in places where once it had been hard and resistant. He was no longer built like a warrior, and he tried not to think what he was instead. A whore would imply that he gained something from this, rather he was a slave to the whims of creatures as foul as orcs, only clothed to appear fair. Why should he have ever sought their aid? Had he known the true face of the elves, had he—

The golden cock struck the sweet spot within him once, then again and again, spearing him and Thorin moaned. His skin was flushed and burning, relief still seemed a mountain away, but the gold was bringing him closer as it caressed his skin, dragging at his nipples with sweet pinching pleasure that left his mind fragmented, scrambling to track each of the delicious sensations at once.

He surrendered.

Thorin forgot Thranduil, forgot that it was elves and that he was their prisoner. Easy, with the blindfold in place. More difficult to imagine that it was others he might desire with the ropes that bound him, but not so difficult as it once was. There was no escaping this, so he allowed his mind to drift while body writhed. Faces filtered, half-formed behind his eyelids and he was gasping, panting imaging being taken, again and again, within his own treasury, far away from here and spread out over gold. Being fucked from behind as another, a friend, a lover, a subject, he did not care but only drove his cock forward, rutting as best he could. His panting breaths were gaining sound of their own, whines and whimpers that increased their pace. Pleasure crackled along Thorin’s skin, in his veins. He could feel the gold goading him on, imagine its shine and glimmer against his own flushed red skin and the image was a punch of furious lust straight through him.

Thorin came howling, sweat bathing the bindings around him. His entire body shuddered in the aftershocks, his entrance twitching to draw in more, another, while his cock  pulsed and the shudders wracked his body. Delirium swept him, the nipple clamps not quite allowing his body to slip into torpor. They were a nagging, teasing pleasure that refused to be stilled, itching and preventing him from slipping into the relaxed rest his body craved. He had come fast, hard, more so than ever before. Perhaps it was the gold, perhaps Thranduil was only robbing him of this too, stealing from him his defenses, his dwarven stamina and making him a better toy for their use.

“We should have him ready again soon.”

They did so enjoy making him come many times.

* * *

Thorin did not know the minute the gold sickness begins to dull from his mind,  but he was on his knees, elbow scraping the silken sheets of Thranduil’s bed while the king watched another of his courtiers take Thorin, when it struck him that he would not escape this. He has been expertly prepared, over an hour spent graduating him to larger toys, slicked with oil, until he can take one of his elven captors. Then another. His snarls and rages had grown dimmer over the past days of use, not half-hearted with acceptance but only with exhaustion.

Pleasure was more difficult to fight than pain.

The elf hit his prostate again, drawing a wretched groan from Thorin, and the force of the pleasure ripping through weakens his manacle arms and leans forward. With his forehead pressed to the sheets, his breath muffled by the plush bed, Thorin opened blue eyes and stares down. The pounding went on, unaware of his revelation. There was no slow, building acceptance of his new lot, they had not tried to ease him into it as gently as they prepared his body. One minute he was a slave to the gold of Erebor, the next the slave to Elven whims in Mirkwood.

The elf spent himself inside of Thorin, and a third took his place. Their stamina was not so long as a dwarf’s, he was still aching and far from climax when the next elf took his place. Thranduil seemed to regard it all as a show, taking part only when it suited him, and now he reclined with a goblet of wine in the corner of the lavish bedroom. Bound as he was to the headboard, Thorin could not even see how many waited to use him; not that it mattered. Thranduil would send them away when he was ready to take Thorin, he seemed to enjoy going last so he could have have Thorin fucked-out and ruined beneath him, plundered of any resistance. He liked to be the one who made Thorin come, howling and biting at the pillow, at his own knuckles, anything to stifle the raw pleasure of his cries. Better to suffer pain than let them know how good it felt, tearing him apart inch by inch with orgasms that melted him, mind and body, into someone else entirely. But the pain he could inflict on himself in the moments of orgasm were rarely enough.

Thranduil did not comment. He did not need to, one smirk as Thorin came back to himself, vision hazy and body languid with satisfaction, was all it took for Thorin to know he’d been used as Thranduil intended, and that once again he’d failed to resist.

Clarity was not a blessing. The haze of gold lust had made him manic, certain of his authority. He may suffer indignation and dispossession, but he would be saved, his enemies would be destroyed. As Thorin’s vision cleared and the gold lost its hold, hundreds of miles away where it lay, he saw the truth.

No one was coming for him. No one knew he was alive, and as Thranduil finally called off the third elf, who pulled out from inside Thorin and took a moment to wipe himself clean on Thorin’s hip before departing, he realized this would not end soon.

Thranduil did not take him immediately. Thorin could feel those cold eyes on him, even as he lay prone on the mattress with his face buried in the sheets and his arms bound together in front of him, then manacled to the bed. He could see Thranduil’s shadow as it fell over him, and all but feel the Elvenking’s breath as he studied his prize.

"Something is different about you,” Thranduil said, half to himself. “You no longer hold yourself with such arrogance.”

Thorin stiffened, shoulders setting to push himself up when cool hands splayed across his back, soiled by the seed of the first elf who had taken his pleasure and spilled over his back, and forced Thorin back down again. “Yes, I can feel it too. The fire has gone out of you, son of Thrain. Perhaps your fever has finally broken.”

Thorin shivered, part from rage and part from cold at those long fingers and the seed cooling on his body, the loss of exertion when he wasn’t rutting. He wants to protest, but talking meant a gag shoved between his lips, sometimes only a silken rag soaked with wine, sometimes shaped like the cocks they trained him to suck, depending on their mood and his defiance. But this time it may be worth it.

“Not a fever, only disappointment that I must finish with the smallest prick,” he lashed back.

“Hmm.” Thranduil hummed with an air of amused disdain. Then those fingers slipped down Thorin’s spine and came to rest at his entrance. He was already slick and loose with oil, and could not help but buck as Thranduil rubbed two fingers inside him, probing at the pleasure spot so Thorin drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. He was close, that at least had been true. No amount of resistance had been enough to overcome his traitorous body, and the many hours of expert seduction inflicted on it.

“Small?” Thranduil murmured. “You should have said so sooner, son of Thrain. We might have found better ways to pleasure our guest.” A third finger joined and worked tirelessly, wriggling and fucking deep inside him until Thorin could not help but twitch beneath it, his breathing going from even to labored. He was twitching backward, trying to draw them in for more.

“Still not enough?” Thranduil said. The tight entrance stretched wider and Thorin bit back a yelp as another finger joined. Thranduil intended to tear him apart, and though it still lingered far from the edge of pain Thorin could all but see the specter of what was to come.

“You are so easily pleased,” Thranduil said. “That is perhaps the greatest irony of all. You claim that this fate is not meant for you, but already you give in. Your body itself changes to better serve us. Can you not see that… Thorin?”

The use of his name shocked Thorin, sent a bolt like lightning through him and then the fist was fucking deep inside him, and his whimpers gave over quickly to begging. Incoherent, laced with broken Khuzdûl phrases but he was so full, and Thranduil’s hand was tireless. He could no longer banish that this was Thranduil fucking him. That cold, imperious presence, that source of hatred now came down from his throne to wring pleasured moans from Thorin, to fill him to bursting.

He teetered on the edge of orgasm, almost enough to be so full, to be pounded so hard by elven strength after hours of light teasing from the courtiers’ cocks. It took only the lightest touch, Thranduil’s other hand stroking the underside of his cock, for Thorin to come. He shivered and gasped, driving harder back onto Thranduil’s hand, and he wasn’t sure if he begged in Common or Khuzdûl but beg he did. Wonderful, so wonderful, like the finest touch, like searching for something long denied. His entire body was molten with it, tingling and sparking as he thrust his hips forward, stuttering with his release.

After he lay still, insensate and stretched out the bed when he realized the hand had been removed. He never saw Thranduil wash, he seemed always to return pristine.

“You’ve come a long way, son of Thrain. Perhaps there is hope for you yet,” Thranduil said, leaning in to whisper Thorin’s ear.

“Hope for what?” Thorin muttered. Could the elf not shut up for a moment?  He still shivered in the aftershock of orgasm, and if nothing else he could at least enjoy this aspect of his captivity.

“That you have come to accept that this is what you were always meant for,” Thranduil said. He did not wait for Thorin’s response, did not stay to see the look of anger flit across Thorin’s expression before he went still and pale. The Elvenking left, and the lost king of Erebor stayed, in his prison deep within the halls of Mirkwood.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This fic is intended to have a second part added at some point, but for now please consider it complete as far as dwarfsmut's prompt is concerned. Also, feel free to check me out on [Tumblr](http://www.avelera.tumblr.com). Do consider leaving a comment if you made it this far, it really does make the hours spent writing worthwhile. This was a very ambitious and challenging fic for me to write, one of the first pure porn pieces I've ever done, so I'm very curious about the reader's opinion on it.


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